Page 45 of Pyg

“Nothing.” I huffed and slumped against the tree, watching as my brother bobbed around throwing punches at the air, apparently oblivious to both the truth and the trouble we were in.

Nearly two months Mum had been gone and not a word from her. Not a phone call or letter, or even a message via our grandmother. We’d quickly given up asking to avoid the grim satisfaction that lit up the otherwise sour features of our grandmother’s face.

“That’s what stray bitches do, abandon their little bastard pups. Just be grateful I’m still willing to put a roof over your heads and food in your stomachs.”

It’s the least you can do,I thought, but kept my mouth shut.

Between us, Bernard and I picked up most of the housekeeping chores, aside from the cooking. We’d tried and failed — resulting in one pot of inedible burned potatoes and one burned finger, Bernard’s, which Grandmother roughly lathered in margarine as she snapped at him to “stop snivelling like a sissy.”

Thereafter, a dowdy little woman called Miss Bray, who wore a crucifix so big it looked like it might snap her scrawny neck, came in to cook three times a week. She showed up with grocery shopping, purchased from the miserly budget Grandmother afforded her, and left behind a refrigerator full of evening meals, which I heated and served.

The three of us ate together, sitting around the kitchen table in silence, except for when Grandmother lectured us on our eating etiquette and table manners, or lack thereof.

We’d taken to shutting Pyg in the studio during school hours, keeping her out of Grandmother’s, and harm’s, way. At night we waited until the old woman heaved her creaky frame upstairs to bed and then we’d sneak Pyg into our bedroom; ninja-stealth mode. We fed her scraps from our own lean meals — cold cuts and stale bread — her eyes glistening as she hungered for more.

“Sorry, girl, that’s all there is,” I would say, stroking the soft downy fur of her head and ignoring the growl of my own stomach.Where are you, Mum?

“George?” A voice pulled me from my thoughts. Bernard had slumped down next to me, his back resting on the oak tree and his head on my shoulder. “What did Johnny mean by what he said about the priest?”

“Huh?”

Bernard’s light eyebrows drew together as he concentrated. “You know, he said that Mum was?—”

“Just stupid rumours, Bernie.”

“Did he mean Father Higgins? Because he’s been gone a while now, too.”

I shrugged.Fucking Higgins.

The shrill school bell signalled the end of lunch and stymied Bernard’s line of questioning. I jumped to my feet and lowered an arm to pull Bernard up, wincing as he gripped my hand, my bruised knuckles a throbbing reminder of the deep shit we were in.

“Come on, let’s get this over with.”

I’d barely walked through the main entrance before I was met by Sister Evelyn’s haughty voice.

“George Shaw. Father Sutherland’s office, immediately.” Her words quavered like her jowls.

Bernard shot me a doe-eyed look of apology and slunk off to his classroom. I took a calming breath and trod heavy steps in the direction of Father Sutherland’s office. I gulped at the trail of dried blood dotted along the dingy corridor. No doubt Johnny Malone’s. And I berated myself for defending our mother’s honour.

Why bother? The rumours were true, weren’t they? At least where Higgins was concerned. And now she’s off, shacked up with him somewhere.I shook my head to expel the thought, to dismiss the delirious grin that always lit up Mum’s face in the presence of Higgins.

The bloody trail continued past where I came to a stop at the wooden church pew. I sat waiting to be summoned; waiting to receive Father Sutherland’s wrath, and no doubt his ruler across the back of my legs. As if my knuckles weren’t sore enough, the sadistic old bastard would make sure I couldn’t sit down for a week without wanting to cry.

And all for what? A mother who’d abandoned us.Still, the crack of Malone’s nose had been quite satisfying. I flexed and clenched my fingers.

The heavy wooden door creaked open, and the white-haired head of the priest peered out. “Come on in, Mr Shaw.”

With leaden legs, I hung my head and sloped into the office like a dead man walking. But I accepted my fate; I’d always defend my mother and Bernard against bullies like Malone. For that, I wasn’t sorry.

The musty room smelt of cigarettes and furniture polish, and dust motes swirled in the light of the low sun streaming from the window behind the priest’s desk. I stood by the floor-to-ceiling bookcase, which housed tomes that were probably heavier than Bernard.

“Take a seat please, Mr Shaw.”

I tentatively perched on the bench in front of the desk. Already dwarfed by the towering man, in the low seat I felt like I’d been shrunk to Lilliputian proportions. Defiantly, I lifted my gaze to meet the priest’s sunken blue eyes. I was surprised not to see a face contorted in anger, like it had been the last time I’d entered this room, but a soft expression.

“I understand that things haven’t been easy for your grandmother since your mother went on mission.”

“Mission?” My voice came out as tiny as I felt.

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